Ditching the Laptop: FAIL

If you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been experimenting with the possibility of ditching the laptop and sticking with just my iPad.

The backstory is that when I started my last job (back in 2011), the company bought me a computer. At that point I gave my laptop, which was getting pretty old anyway, to my mom. Then, when I left that job and took this new job, I had to return the “new” computer. My sister-in-law had just bought a new laptop, so she was good enough to let me borrow her old computer, but it was super slow (which is why she got a new one).

Because it was so slow, I was using my iPad more and more for everything, and finally I decided to try making it my main computing device. Well, I can officially report now that the experiment has failed.

MacBook Air

There’s something so pretty about a new computer. All fresh and clean and full of potential. Like you could do anything with it. And it’s so fast. And it’s almost as light as the iPad, if not as compact. And I didn’t realize how much I missed the full-sized keyboard.

So, that’s that. It was a worthwhile experiment, but I just couldn’t make the iPad work like I wanted it to. I need to be able to jump around, from research to writing to email. There’s a fluidity that the laptop has that (at least so far) the iPad can’t match.

Onward and upward!

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Taking the Leap to Fiction

I have long held to the idea that the greatest tragedy in life is that it is so short. This world is so big, and so full of strange and wonderful things, that I am often struck with a sense of overwhelming loss at the idea that I will only experience a minuscule portion of it. It’s the reason I exercise and why I quit smoking. If I can buy myself even a few more years on this planet, to explore the vast array of sights, sounds, and tastes it has to offer, I’ll do whatever it takes.

This has often lead me over-commit myself. I take on too many projects because I get excited about new opportunities. I know I do, and I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. Ever since I took this new job, freelance jobs have been coming out of the woodwork – go figure. Good, high-paying gigs have just landed in my lap, and I’ve had to hand them off to other writers I know because I simply don’t have time to do the work.

This has made me think seriously about going back to freelance. I like the flexibility and the diversity of the projects. I even took one of the jobs, writing for a new phone app that I can’t really tell you about yet except to say that it aligns with my travel writing. (I’ll tell you all about it once they launch.)

This little side gig is fun. It’s interesting. It’s a break from the norm and chance to try something new, which is always a draw for me. But it was due two days ago, and I’m going to spend all day today wrapping it up (today, which was supposed to be a day of fiction writing), and in the end, for the amount of time I will spend on it, the pay is a lot less than I’m making at my job.

Freelance work can be great, but it requires constant hustling for the next job, and it often doesn’t pay for shit. And all that has shifted my thinking yet again. The question came to me: what if I never go back to freelance – ever? What if I just put that out of my head entirely? What if I get up in the morning, write, go to work, maybe even write on my lunch break, and use my Mondays to write my novel instead of dicking around with little freelance jobs? That was why I negotiated to have Mondays off in the first place. I wanted more time for my fiction, but I keep getting distracted, and then frustrated because I’m not making more progress on the novel.

When I look at it like this, it feels stupidly simple. Focus. Cut out all the distractions and just focus on what matters most to me: time with my family and time to work on my fiction. It would be foolish to quit a job that pays me so well to do what I love. I think now is a time to stay the course and focus on my fiction.

One time, when I was in grad school, Janet Fitch said to me: “If you’re thinking of writing anything but fiction, just stop.” At the time I smiled and thanked her for the vote of confidence, and even though I wrote that on a post-it note and stuck it over my desk, I kind of ignored it. I don’t know why. I think it’s because it’s kind of scary committing to fiction. It’s an art, and being an artist is hard. It invites criticism, and requires vulnerability in a way that being a travel writer does not. Honestly, nobody is ever going to critique my work on this travel app.

So this is me, the fiction writer, deciding to make the leap. If you are in need of a good freelancer, please feel free to drop me a line – I know lots of good writers, but as for me, from now on, I’ll be writing fiction.

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Back From Portland, Writing Again

I don’t know who I was kidding, thinking I would have time to blog on the day before my sister’s wedding. There were nails to be painted, napkins to be folded, family to be picked up from the airport and so, so much more. We were busy well into the night, and then, because I am a saint and offered to watch my sister’s kiddos the night before the wedding, I was up at 5am with the baby. But I regret nothing! (This seems to be evolving into a catch phrase for me.)

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It was such a good time. My sis looked stunning, and she and her hubby were so happy.  I’m so grateful to all the friends and family who came together to make it a grand affair. Thank you all!

And now I’m back. It’s Monday. I woke at 5am to try to get back to my regular schedule – it’s always really difficult after a break, but I am wrapping up a final polish on the short I’ve been working on – the twenty or so pages I cut from my last draft of the novel. It still needs an ending, but it’s close. I’m hoping to wrap that up today and send it off to the writing group for a fine tooth comb review.

Then it’s back to the novel. I don’t know if I’ve shared where I’m at with it. After getting feedback on the last draft I’ve decided to add about 100 pages to the beginning, so I’m working on an outline of those new pages. And by “working on” I mean I’ve been doing anything but for the last two months. It’s time to get serious. The good news is that the pages I have won’t need to change much. We’ll see. I’m feeling a little daunted, and a lot tired, but this is what separates the real artists from the amateurs, right? Hanging in there for one more pass, because it’s not done and I know it, even though I’m totally sick of it and really, more than anything, just want to declare it done and move one.

Lastly, before I say goodbye, I promised an update on how things are going with my effort to ditch the laptop and go all iPad, all the time. After about a month, I have to say the jury is still out.

Pros:

  • Portability
  • Speed (this baby is way faster than my ancient laptop)
  • Cost (the $90 I dropped on the keyboard is way cheaper than a new MacBook)

Cons:

  •  I’m still getting used to the tiny keyboard (though it’s getting easier and easier, I don’t feel relaxed using it yet).
  • Compatibility (I still haven’t figure out how to easily share things I write in Pages or Google Docs – at least for things like submissions to journals, where they need a pdf of the doc).
  • Ease of navigation, both in any given document (anything over 20 pages is a pain to navigate) and also between apps. I’m the kind of person who keeps a lot of windows open for research while I’m writing. With the iPad I have to close out of an app to open another, and there is a lag time.

So I don’t know. This little experiment may yet flop. I may be forced to bite the bullet and buy a new laptop. But I’m not giving up yet. It may just take a little more time to get used to a new way of operating.

Well see…

 

 

 

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Storytelling 101

Okay, so I had a slightly more elaborate post in store for today, but I’m just swamped with last minute preparations for my sister’s wedding, so instead I will simply share this little gem, made by a certain kindergartener two years ago. It’s such a perfect summary of what story is:

storytelling 101

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Somebody wanted, but, so, then, finally.

Wish someone had taught ME that 33 years ago.

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Later, Laptop. Hello iPad.

Cheers BitchesWhat an amazing weekend. The party (my sister’s bachelorette, in case you haven’t been keeping up) grew gradually, starting with a couple friends Friday night. On Saturday morning we slept in, then took a hike up to this amazing lookout over the Columbia River. The rest of the guests arrived gradually over the course of the day and it evolved into a great night. But as fun as all that was, I think the best part was Sunday night, when everyone else had gone home, and we had picked up my niece and nephew. We soaked in the hot-tub, then put the kids to bed and sat up talking, just my sis and me. We tried to remember if we had done that since we started having kids – almost 8 years ago now – and decided we hadn’t. It was long over due.

And since this blog is about writing, and not how much I love partying with my awesome sister and her friends, I’d like to share the latest development in my writing life. As of this post, I have officially gone iPad only.

It’s someting I’ve been reading up on for a while. See, my laptop is getting old and a little slow, so I’ve been using my iPad more and more, and not just for research. I was seriously considering dumping the laptop all together, except that I hate the on-screen key pad. I just can’t work with that. So after some online reading, and a couple trips to Best Buy to check things out in person, I have purchased a tiny little keyboard that fits, along with my iPad mini, inside a tiny little case that fits inside my not-so-tiny purse. I can now officially work anywhere.

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The thing that finally allowed me to make the jump is the new Photos app that is replacing iPhoto. See, Internet searches and typing are one thing, but I take a lot of photos. I couldn’t fathom leaving all my photos on my laptop, or having to go through a lot of hassle backing things up regularly. Everything is still syncing, so I can’t say yet what I think of the app, but I did a time machine backup before I began the transfer, so if it sucks, I’ll just scurry back to iPhoto.

As for my writing, so far, I am using Google Drive to store my work, but I am also experimenting with different text editors. I know I may hit a wall if I ever need to work off line, but I am so rarely without Internet that I’m not terribly concerned about that. Besides, I think Google Docs has a way for me to work off line. These are things I have yet to discover.

In truth, it still feel like a bit of an experiment. If you’ve made the jump from laptop to iPad and have any wisdom on it, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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Seven Years Down, Three to Go

I didn’t get much writing done last week. We’re in the final stretch leading up to my sister’s wedding, and I’ve been spending a lot of time on preparations. Last week, I was wrapping up plans for the bachelorette party on Friday (so excited!) and on top of that, it was my birthday.

I have mixed feelings about birthdays as of late. I’m not really one to dread getting older. I don’t even mind the wrinkles that have been slowly taking hold around my eyes or the gray hairs that catch my eye in the mirror. The thing that set me squirming last week was realizing that I am now 38, and I started working on my novel when I was 31.

And it’s not done. It’s not anywhere near done. I got some very thoughtful feedback recently, and it has made me realize I actually have a ways to go with it. So I find myself outlining, again. In my darker moments, like this morning at 5am, I seriously consider throwing the towel in. I mean, seriously, seven years. Who am I kidding?

In my more optimistic moments, I think that really these past seven years have been training. There’s that old saying that you have to put 10 years or 10,000 hours into something before you can call yourself an expert. I wouldn’t even know where to begin counting hours, but I have been a writer for seven years now, both professionally and creatively. And that’s not even counting all the dabbling and short story writing I did before I decided to take myself seriously.

After I’ve had my coffee, I can accept that maybe this first novel is training. When I’m not feeling like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out, I can see that maybe my next novel won’t take a decade, because of everything I’m learning on this one. And then I think – what if does? Would I quit? I just can’t fathom quitting. I’m a writer, this is what I do, and as much as I love my job, I am not a technical writer at heart, I’m a storyteller.

Trouble is, it’s hard to stay optimistic. I think for now I’ll forget about being positive, and just resolve to reserve judgement for another three years. If I’m ten years in and still haven’t finished a book I feel is worthy of reading, then maybe I’ll consider giving up. But for now, I trudge forward.

#writingishard

Here’s a photo I took on a research trip to the OK Corral Ostrich Farm (in 2009).

Ostrich Writing

 

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Comparing Prose

I recently re-read Lonesome Dove. I wanted to read it more critically this time, to really consider why it captivated me so excruciatingly the first time I read it. At nearly 1000 pages, the worst thing about it is that it’s not longer. I feel like I could live in that book. If I had to choose one story to take to a deserted island, that would be it. And it held up on the second read, just as it had on the first.

So I got to thinking, what is it about McMurtry’s writing that is so effing awesome? Well, down at the good old Silver Lake Public Library I found myself a few other books by the man and set to reading. What I discovered was that I don’t actually love all of his writing. I couldn’t even finish Leaving Cheyenne. But I couldn’t quite say why. This seemed like a tremendous opportunity.

I pulled a passage from Leaving Cheyenne at random:

When we got to Molly’s she bandaged my hand and we sat up in the kitchen, eating all the stray food and talking over old times. We were all in high spirits and Johnny told us a lot of stories about life on the plains. Finally me and him slept awhile on her living room floor, and about sunup she came in in her nightgown and bathrobe and woke us up and cooked the best breakfast I ever ate.

Then I flipped to a page of Lonesome Dove:

By the time she got to her back porch the rain was slackening and the sun was already striking little rainbows through the sparkle of drops that still fell. Pea had walked on home, the water dripping more slowly from his hat. He never mentioned the incident to anyone, knowing it would mean unmerciful teasing if it ever got out. But he remembered it. When he lay on the porch half drunk and it floated up in his mind, things got mixed into the memory that he hadn’t even known he was noticing, such as the smell of Mary’s wet flesh. He hadn’t meant to smell her, and hadn’t made any effort to, and yet, the very night after it happened the first thing he remembered was that Mary had smelled different from any other wet thing he had ever smelled.

In looking at these two passages, as a writer, the first difference I see is in the detail. The first passage just sort of tells what they did. The second has the most wonderful details: little rainbows through the sparkle of drops, the smell of Mary’s wet flesh. And I love the phrase “different from any other wet thing he had ever smelled.” It made me giggle, and it evokes the smell of wet things. Wet things smell different than dry things.

The second thing I notice is the passing of time. Both passages cover the better part of a day, but the second has more context to the passing: the water dripping from his hat on the walk home, laying on the porch half drunk thinking of this woman. Compare that to “me and him slept a while on her living room floor.” I guess you could chalk that up to details as well. Maybe that’s why Lonesome Dove is so long. It’s all the details. But I’ll tell you, it’s those details that make it absolutely delicious.

The third is the narrator. Lonesome Dove is third person, jumping from character to character (to character – there are a lot of them), while Leaving Cheyenne is first person, which is inherently limiting. You just can’t tell as grand a story from first person. The main character in Leaving Cheyenne would never notice rainbows in raindrops. It just wouldn’t fit.

My novel is in first person, but I really feel like it needs to be. It’s a personal story. It’s subjective. It does limit perspective a bit, but I think the lesson here is to bring the details, make it visceral. My character is not above noting details, so I think there is reason to aspire to the heights of Lonesome Dove.  Not that I could ever write something as genius as that, but a girl can dream…

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Making Use of Discarded Pages

It’s official. I am way too old to be staying up all night partying. It took me about five days to recover from my adventures in the desert last weekend. Not that I even drank all that much. I was just so freaking tired. But whatever

I REGRET NOTHING!

That said, my writing did take a hit last week. It was Wednesday before I actually got up for my usual 5am writing session, and even then I was so foggy I couldn’t really concentrate to write. So I decided to take advantage of the time by culling some old pages that got cut from the last draft of my novel and see if maybe I could turn them into a short story worthy of submission to a journal or two.

When I started this story, it was all about this sassy girl named Sunday. Then, as the story evolved Sunday’s appearance in the story got pushed back, and then pushed again, and finally, at some point, it stopped being her story at all. In fact, she didn’t even belong in the story anymore. I was deeply reluctant to cut her, but as soon as I did, the story opened wide up. It was like I finally saw what I wanted to do with the narrative.

But the Sunday pages (as I’ve starte calling them) are still pretty good pages, and I have a lot of them. So on Wednesday morning I pasted them all into their own fresh Word doc and took a rough pass at trimming anything that referenced the larger story. When I was done I had 24 pages, which I promptly emailed to my writing group.

My hope is that with their help I can figure out a framework for Sunday’s story that will allow it to stand on it’s own. A little chocolate, a little wine, and five kick-ass story tellers brainstorming should produce at least a few ideas.
It would be nice to send something out into the world again. Having short stories published is a good confidence booster, and won’t hurt any when it comes time to start sending out queries to agents.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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Wrapping Things Up In The Mojave

Ef Coachella. I spent this last weekend out in the desert for a little get-together that’s come to be known, among a select group of revelers, as Great Friday.

There’s a bit of back story here.

Twenty years ago, some friends decided to host a big party for everyone who wasn’t going home to visit family for the Easter weekend – they called it the Good Friday party. The statute of limitations has run out on this one, so I feel pretty safe admitting that there was a lot of drug use. It was quite a thing.

Within a few years the party had gotten pretty big, and the hosts, if you can call them that, had become pretty well-established EDM (in our day we called it “techno”) DJs. So they moved the event to the magical, permissive expanse of the Mojave and turned it into a weekend-long event. I’ll tell you, there is nothing like the way a bass beat echoes over a dry lake bed at dawn. Nothing.

In more recent years, a lot of us have become parents, which made disappearing to the desert for Easter weekend tough, unless you wanted to bring your kids out to that harsh, intoxicated environment (which I didn’t). So a few years ago the event got pushed to the weekend after Easter, and renamed Great Friday.

So that’s how the whole thing started. And now, sadly, I can tell you how it ended.

This weekend was the last Great Friday event. The organizers either have moved away to distant lands or will be moving soon, and without them there’s no music. Without music, it’s just a camp out – which is still fun, but will never be the same.

It seems an interesting coincidence in my mind that this event, which has been such a touchstone for me throughout my entire adult life, is coming to an end as I finish my first novel – a deeply personal story that is set in the Mojave. And why is it set in the Southern California desert? Because I fell in love with the place at these parties. I love the way the full moon paints the landscape in silver light. I love the way the sage bushes squeak as their thick branches blow in the wind. I love the way the light changes as the sun sneaks up on the horizon from the other side of the planet. I love shaking my bootie on a dance floor that stretches for miles. And I love, love, love my rowdy friends, who really are the best part.

I guess that’s life, though. Things change. Twenty years of partying with the same group of friends is a pretty good run. If I have one parting wish, it’s that I have managed to capture just few hints of the magic of the Mojave in my story. I guess only time will tell.

Here are some shots from the weekend:

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Layers of History at the Mission San Carlos

For those of you who don’t know me, let me begin today’s post by saying that I am a big lover of Northern California. I grew up in Sonoma County, on the edge of wine country, and as soon as I got my driver’s license I spent full days driving all over, exploring every deserted road and back country highway. I took my little CVCC hatch-back down roads it was really never meant to travel. I even recently wrote a book on Northern California for a travel series called Guide For the Eyes. With any luck that will be coming out soon.

Anyway, I love, love, love Northern California and this last weekend, I happened to be visiting family up there for Easter.

My next novel, which is coming along slowly but surely, opens in 1784 at the Mission San Carlos. So this last Saturday, while were within driving distance, Daniel and I loaded the kids into my in-law’s minivan and made the hour and a half trip to see the place in person.

The thing that struck me immediately upon arrival was that the place is not a museum. I mean, it is, in many respects, but it is also an active place of worship. They were rehearsing their Easter services when we arrived and as we strolled around the grounds I was struck over and over by the fact that the place is nothing if not layer upon layer of history.

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Chatting with a docent I learned that many of the walls are, deep underneath the white wash and layers of adobe, the original brick and rock of the first construction, but it’s impossible to tell from looking how old any one thing is. I had been hoping to get a sense of what things would have been like back in the 1700’s but it’s just not that simple.

For instance, they have rebuilt Father Junipero Serra’s living quarters, and in looking through the bars at the room, it is easy to believe that it looked much the same 200 years ago, but just outside the door is the entrance to the gift shop – presumably NOT there in Serra’s time.

Mission San carlos junipero serra

The square the mission is built around has a cross erected where the church was officially first founded, so you know you’re standing on a spot of deep historical significance, but is that the same cross that appears in the old drawings? Does a wooden cross stand for hundreds of years? Or is it replaced as it degenerates over time?

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There is a tiny little graveyard that was created in memory of the native people who lived and died at the mission, but nowhere on the signage for this lovely little site, with its twenty or so graves, do they mention the hundreds of Native Americans who actually died at the mission. There is likewise very little mention of the exceedingly hard lives they lived under the leadership of the church. I’ve been doing a lot of research on the topic and I always have to check my sources, as I have noticed significant differences in reports made by those sympathetic to the church, and those seeking to relay an accurate historical rendering of events.

Mission San Carlos Native

When we left the mission, we drove down to the ocean. I wanted to see what the coast line looked like right there. I have read many accounts of where and how ships would set anchor, and I wanted to get a sense of what it would have been like to arrive in the bay, see the short beach leading to twenty-foot cliffs and the rolling hills beyond. What a thing that must have been.

Mission San Carlos

I don’t know how much of this will make it into the novel. It’s not historical fiction. It’s a love story. But it’s important to understand the setting, even if few of the details ever actually appear in the prose.

All I can say for sure right now is that I am very much in love with this story. I look forward to working on it every night as I set my alarm. How lucky am I?

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